


Fictober 2018: 31 Day Prompt Challenge

by susandwrites



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A bit of gore, A smidge of violence, Blow Jobs, Domestic Fluff, Fictober, Fictober 2018, First Dates, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Parent!lock, Sexual Fantasy, Slow Build, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 18:57:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 19,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16270346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susandwrites/pseuds/susandwrites
Summary: 31 short prompts leading to 31 chapters of varying length.Takes place after the events of Series 4; John and Sherlock are making a life together, but it still feels strained sometimes.Things will get dirty, I promise, I'm just really enjoying the build and the fluff in-between.





	1. Day 1: "Can you feel this?"

**Author's Note:**

> Full list of prompts here: https://susandwrites.tumblr.com/post/178468530001/barbex-a-list-of-prompts-for-october-write

“Can you feel this?” John gently stretched and turned Sherlock’s foot, eliciting a hiss from the detective on the ground.

“Yes, I can,” Sherlock replied in a tight tone. “And I must admit, I don’t care for it.”

Through an exasperated smile, John replied, “Well, it’s better than the alternative. It isn’t broken.”

“Good. Then I can resume my pursuit.” Sherlock put a hand on the ground and made to get up, but John would not release his ankle.

“No, you cannot,” the doctor insisted. “It’s not broken, but it _is_ sprained. You landed directly on your ankle bone – you’re lucky.”

“Not lucky enough if I’m being detained from my search for a ruthless murderer by a self-important –”

“Watch it,” John cut off Sherlock’s insult as he dropped his rucksack from his shoulder, still keeping a hold on the swelling ankle in his hand. He pulled open the drawstring bag and extracted a wrapping bandage. After – well, after Mary – John had started carrying basic medical supplies on their cases. Sherlock was very accident prone and John couldn’t believe how long it had taken him to start being prepared.

This time, Sherlock had been dashing away from a crime scene after someone that John had not even seen in the first place. When he had come to the intersection, he took an unfortunate misstep and placed his foot directly on the edge of the sidewalk. The concrete slick from the morning’s rain, Sherlock’s foot had slid out from under him and he landed, hard, on the unforgiving pavement below. It had been a truly spectacular fall – Sherlock was usually so graceful. Of course, all Sherlock could focus on was that his prey had slipped away.

“ _John_ ,” he whined and John suppressed a chuckle. “That boy was clearly reporting back to the killer and now it might be _days_ before I get another lead on their location!”

“Don’t sell yourself so short.” John carefully removed Sherlock’s leather Oxford shoe and dress sock before beginning to wrap his ankle tightly. “You’ll find another clue in no time.”

“Don’t patronize me, John. And don’t say ‘clue’ as if we’re characters in a mystery novel.” Sherlock’s elegant hands fluttered around in annoyance before he literally flopped onto the ground.

“I’ll stop patronizing you when you stop acting like a child.” Securing the bandage, John replaced Sherlock’s sock and shoe. Holding the long foot against his thigh as he tied Sherlock’s shoe reminded him so strongly of Rosie that he smiled a little wistfully. She was just moving into laced shoes and he and Sherlock had argued at length about the validity of the “bunny ears” method.

When John released Sherlock’s foot, he let it fall listlessly to the ground, his arms spread out in a pathetic pose. He was pouting. With a heavy sigh he said, “I am an island.”

“Hardly.” John stood and retrieved the telescoping aluminium cane from his bag that he had used when he first met Sherlock. He’d kept it all these years and Sherlock had used it more than once – twice for its intended use, four times as a presentation pointer, and once to push and pull objects away from Anderson at Scotland Yard. Extending it to its full length, it was still a little short for Sherlock, but it would do. John held out the handle for Sherlock to grab, but he did not move until John knocked his hip bone hard enough to annoy. He pulled the detective to his feet and forced the cane into his hand. “Come on, let’s go and have a proper look at the crime scene.”

Sherlock had learned several years ago to obey John’s medical orders, so he took up the cane without any further protest. He hobbled as quickly as possible and John remained a step behind to preserve his fragile ego as they approached the cordoned building where Donovan had established the crime scene.

“Well, this is a turn, isn’t it, Freak?” Donovan called cruelly to Sherlock. “You wobbling up to the tape with a cane!”

“Hush, Sally,” Sherlock said, as aloof as ever. “Your voice summons other idiots to the immediate vicinity.” He hooked the police tape with the handle of the cane and pulled it down before stepping aside to allow John passage. As they passed, John made sure to give Donovan a glare that he could tell left her feeling shamed about her comments.

Through the ground floor of the townhome and into the walled garden, Sherlock and John met Lestrade where he stood over the young woman’s body, covered with a sheet. “Gents,” Lestrade greeted. When he spotted Sherlock’s cane, he said, “What happened to you?”

“I fell in the pursuit of an accomplice, an action which need not frighten your foot soldiers as I have yet to see a single one of them give chase.” Sherlock knelt over the body and whipped out his magnifier.

“He fell?” Lestrade turned to John with poorly-disguised amusement on his face.

“Saw it myself,” John confirmed and Lestrade chuckled. “It was a pretty good one, too – coat flapping about like a cape, limbs flailing all over –”

“If you’ve quite finished,” Sherlock interrupted curtly and John and Lestrade stifled their giggles.

“So, what are we looking at?” John gave the garden a quick glance. “A home invasion?”

“I reckon so. Bit more brutal than your typical break-and-enter, though.”

Sherlock spoke in that “you’re an idiot tone” as he continued to inspect the body before him, “People like you have no imagination.”


	2. Day 2: "People like you have no imagination."

“People like you have no imagination.”

“Sherlock,” John warned. The detective sighed, exhausted at always having to accommodate the laypeople around him.

“No?”

“No. Air B&B rental – just checked in today.” Sherlock continued his inspection, pulling at the dead woman’s clothing and prodding gently at the deep slash at her throat. His ministrations revealed a second deep gash in her lower abdomen, which he left undisturbed.

“And we know this…  how?” John prompted. Finally, Sherlock stood and began pointing authoritatively about the townhome.

“Welcome basket on the kitchen counter, travel-sized toiletries, freshly wiped bathroom surfaces – shower not scrubbed – and re-made bed. Didn’t change the sheets – owner needs to hire a better cleaning service. Guest checked in via the app this afternoon, but he’s still out to dinner.”

“’He’?” Lestrade repeated. “You mean ‘she’.” He pointed down to the dead woman, but Sherlock shook his head.

“No, _he_. This woman isn’t the guest, she’s a prostitute. John?” Sherlock turned his expectant gaze on the doctor and nodded toward the body. Taking his cue, John knelt down to take a closer look, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves.

“I’d say the killer is left-handed, going by the angle of the slashes on her throat and stomach.” He pulled back the sheet and Lestrade took an awkward step backward as John gently placed his fingers just inside the edge of the wound. “Serrated blade, I think. Rather long, too, but very deliberate cuts…” John trailed off when he noticed something – or rather, something missing. “They’ve removed her uterus.” His eyes met Sherlock’s in disgust. A cold wave of unease washed over John, but Sherlock was as composed as ever, his long fingers drumming the cane as he nodded along with John’s assessment.

“Good God,” Lestrade muttered, paling.

John shook the uncomfortable feeling away and returned to his examination. There was a faint chemical odour around her face – something he couldn’t place, but could have been a sedative. “I’m not sure – we’ll have to wait for Molly’s final opinion – but it is possible that she was still alive at the time of the uterine extraction.” Lestrade started pacing then, breathing through his mouth, but John pressed on. Looking down the rest of her body, strangely unmarred by knife or other assault, he noticed a tattoo inside her left elbow. “A barcode?”

“Yes,” Sherlock concurred. “I remember a nearly-identical tattoo on a different woman who also had her throat cut about a year ago, but I chalked it up to the bizarre need that young people feel to be ‘unique’.” He pointed down at the tattoo under John’s thumb and continued, “But they have different numbers – the first girl’s ended in ‘zero-nine’. This one is ends in ‘two-one’.”

“And you think they’re connected?” John inferred. Lestrade was silent, his hand cupped over his mouth as he tried not to vomit at the sight before him. Noticing this, John replaced the sheet and Lestrade visibly relaxed. “Not just similar tattoos – same artist, maybe? Choosing numbers important to them?”

“Connected, definitely. I think they’re inventory.”

“Inventory? They’re people, not iPhones, Sherlock.”

“I know that,” he replied indignantly. “Someone else doesn’t. Their pimp, most likely.” John was taken aback – Sherlock never acknowledge other people’s humanity.

He glanced back down at the covered corpse and a hideous though occurred to him. “She was pregnant.” When he caught Sherlock’s eye again, the detective nodded solemnly.

“Jesus…” Lestrade uttered. John ignored him.

“With someone important’s baby – someone who would be compromised if she were to give birth.” Another nod from Sherlock. “The pimp?”

“Possibly.”

“What do we do now?” Lestrade was visibly upset, his face as pale as his white shirt and his breathing shallow. John gestured for him to step back into the house and away from the body. He did so willingly.

“Now,” said Sherlock, following the other two men inside, “we establish a social network – other girls in the ring, see if we can find out who the pimp is.”

“How many, do you reckon?” Lestrade asked, breathing a little easier.

“At least twenty-one, including her,” Sherlock answered. “I’ll start canvasing the homeless network – very closely connected to prostitution – see if anyone has seen anymore of these tattoos.”

“Not tonight, you’re not,” John insisted and Sherlock turned on him in furious indignation.

“Why ever not?”

“You’re going home to ice and elevate that ankle,” John replied. When Sherlock made to argue, he pressed on with full military authority. “Now.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, but he did not dissent. His lip pursed, he turned on his good heel and stormed from the townhouse, the action somewhat diminished by his awkward gait.

“Impressive,” Lestrade intoned.

“Years of training.” With a short nod, John followed Sherlock outside.


	3. Day 3: "How can I trust you?"

“How can I trust you?” Sherlock leaned forward slowly and placed his elbows on his knees, resting his fingertips against his lips in contemplation of his opponent. “One person is already dead and I have yet to determine that _you_ are not the killer.”

Rosie giggled and held her cards up to her cheery face, failing to hide her delight from him. “It wasn’t me!”

“Prove it,” Sherlock demanded, gesturing toward the game board. “I deduce that the killer is, in fact, Miss Scarlett, and that furthermore, the weapon of choice was the spanner and the location was the kitchen. Can you refute this accusation?”

Another high-pitched giggle bubbled up from Rosie’s tummy as she selected a card from her hand and held it out to Sherlock. Miss Scarlett’s conventionally attractive face stared cloyingly up at him. “Damn!” he exclaimed, throwing his own cards to the floor and leaning back in his chair, frustratingly defeated.

“Language,” Rosie chided in perfect Mrs. Hudson intonation and Sherlock huffed in annoyance. Taking up the dice in both of her chubby hands, Rosie tossed them onto the board and moved her token into the billiard room. “Ok! I think it was _you_!”

“Oh, you do?” Sherlock replied in a mocking tone, eliciting a grin from the little girl across from him.

“Yes, I think you killed him with the…” she pointed her finger and thumb at him like a gun.

“The revolver.”

“Yeah! The ‘volder! In the ballroom!”

“You always guess the ballroom.”

“That’s where the parties are,” she reasoned.

“Well, I have no evidence to suggest otherwise.” Sherlock gestured blandly down at his cards and Rosie stood in John’s chair to see them better across the coffee table. There lie Colonel Mustard, the dagger, and the conservatory.

“Then it _was_ you!” Rosie reached for the envelope in the centre of the board, but Sherlock put his hand on top of hers.

“Wait just a moment,” he insisted. “There are still three other suspects to consider, not to mention their weapons and locations of choice.”

“It was you,” she replied confidently. Sherlock’s mouth twisted up in defiance, but the front door opened before he could defend himself. “Daddy!” Rosie called as John entered the flat and dropped his jacket on the peg.

“Hello, Rosie-girl!” He stepped swiftly over to her and kissed her on the head. Spotting the Cluedo board, he said, “Ah – or should I say, ‘Hello, Miss Scarlett’?” She beamed and he kissed her again, petting her blonde curls affectionately. To Sherlock, he greeted, “Professor Plum. Ankle up.” Sherlock sighed and raised his wrapped foot onto the corner of the coffee table as instructed.

“How did –”

“You’re always Professor Plum.” John picked Rosie up and took up his chair, holding her in his lap. “A brain in a tight purple shirt.” Rosie giggled at Sherlock’s expression of absolute affrontery.

“Sherlock’s the killer,” she said confidently to John and he raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“Well, that’s a turn. Are you sure it wasn’t Dr. Black himself?” he asked in a mocking tone.

“The only thing we know _for certain_ ,” he stared deliberately at Rosie as he spoke, “is that is isn’t Miss Scarlett or Colonel Mustard.”

“Course not – upstanding military gent, in my opinion.” John tickled Rosie, eliciting a stream of loud giggles. Sherlock _pfft_ -ed, but couldn’t stifle his smile at Rosie’s infectious laughter. “I’ve just gotten off the phone with Lestrade,” John said, taking up Rosie’s cards as Sherlock rolled the dice. “He wants you to come in tomorrow to discuss the case.”

With an imperious huff, Sherlock said, “I’m sure he does.”

“I like Officer Greg,” Rosie interjected, watching as Sherlock moved his token around the board. “Are you going to help him catch a _real_ killer, Daddy?”

“We’re going to try, love.”

“You can do it.” She patted John’s hand reassuringly and Sherlock smiled faintly again. Rosie needed to start spending time with women other than Mrs. Hudson – she was remarkably matronly for a girl of only three-and-a-half.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” John laughed and kissed her again. With that, he stood, replaced Rosie in the chair and said, “I’ll order Chinese for dinner, shall I?”

“Shanghai Palace,” they replied in unison, both focused again on the game. Out of curiosity, John took up the tiny manila envelope and peeked inside. Professor Plum with the revolver in the ballroom.


	4. Day 4: "Will that be all?"

“Will that be all?” Sherlock stood impatiently from the chair in front of Lestrade’s desk. The little wobble on his still-sore ankle diminished the effect of this gesture, but Rosie reached up to take his hand and he steadied. “We have places to be.”

“We’re going to the morgue!” Rosie exclaimed and John shook his head, eyes cast upward in a silent plea for help from whichever deity deemed fit.

“Well, I’m sure no one there is going anywhere,” Lestrade replied. “And no, that is not all, Sherlock. We’ve only just started –”

“Lestrade,” Sherlock lowered his voice somewhat menacingly and John turned his attention on the detective, “let me assure you that I can solve this case much faster without your fumbling policemen attempting to stay ahead of me. I will gladly let Scotland Yard take the credit for solving this crime –”

“That’s not what this is about –”

“– but I will not be subject to any further time-wasting interrogations.” John’s eyebrows were nearly in his hair as he glanced between the detective and the Detective Inspector.

“Something to hide?” A nasal voice sounded from the doorway and Sherlock’s jaw clenched.

“Anderson,” he acknowledged with undisguised disdain. Turning to the man leaning against Lestrade’s doorframe, Sherlock continued, “I was unaware that Scotland Yard had continued use for an upright _swine_ with traitorous tendencies.”

Anderson’s nostrils flared at that, but John knew it was likely borne of guilt, not anger. “You’re always so _clever_ , aren’t you? Well, if you’re so clever, why don’t you help us solve the case instead of keeping everything to yourself?”

“Because I’m more interested in stopping a murderer than following procedure,” Sherlock replied smartly, his grip on Rosie’s hand tightening defensively. “When a young woman is branded as chattel and her insides brutally removed –”

“Sherlock!” John cut his eyes down at Rosie, who was listening raptly to the conversation happening before her.

“Not – what’s the word – appropriate?” Sherlock questioned genuinely.

“Not in the least.”

“Anderson, we will continue this discourse when our company is not so impressionable,” Sherlock said, all ire for the other man gone at the prospect of somehow upsetting Rosie. John’s heart warmed at his remarkable ability to turn off certain facets of his personality for her benefit. Mouth agape, Anderson looked from Sherlock to John, who merely nodded his consent.

“Alright, alright,” Lestrade piped up at last. “If you two are finished, Sherlock could you _please_ , just maybe, let us in on the details you’ve worked out? If we don’t follow procedure, at least to some degree, we could lose the case in court if it ever comes to that.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, uncomfortable and unsure, so John answered for him. “Come by this evening – after the little madam’s gone to bed – and we’ll be happy to share what we know.” With that, he stood and took Rosie’s other hand. Swinging the little girl between them, Sherlock and John left Lestrade’s office and headed out of the police station. Molly had set up a special tea service and medical examination for Rosie and they were on their way to being late.


	5. Day 5: "Take what you need."

“Take what you need.”

“’ _Take what you need’?_ ” Sherlock repeated John’s words with utmost indignation and a little panic. “John! _I_ need this evidence!”

“Sherlock!” John hissed. If it were anyone else, he would have grown tired long ago of always chastising. But there was something about Sherlock that kept him around. And there was clearly something about John that made Sherlock want to comply, for he clenched his jaw and drew in a deliberate breath, but did not argue any further. “I know how hard you’ve worked on this case and I intend – hey! I intend to help you finish it,” he said emphatically as Sherlock began to pace. “But you have to let the police do their jobs.”

“But _Anderson_ _and_ _Donovan_ , John,” Sherlock whined, gesturing to the two offending people in their sitting room. Donovan reached for the slipper on the mantle and Sherlock snapped, “Don’t touch that!”

“Why not? This where you keep your stash?” she asked cruelly.

“How _dare_ you!” Sherlock replied, advancing on her. “How dare you insinuate that I would keep drugs in this flat!”

“You’ve done it before.” Her eyebrows arched defiantly as she crossed her arms, not backing down from Sherlock’s growing fury.

“Not since Rosie came here.” Sherlock’s voice was so firm and clipped that John actually jumped a little. Not in all that time? Truly? Not even a little?

“Really?” Donovan asked unbelieving.

“Get out.” They were all shocked by Sherlock’s words, but he repeated them. “Get. Out.” His eyes were dark with unbridled anger and his demeanour was so stiff and quiet that John felt a shiver.

Breaking the stunned silence, John said to Anderson, “I think you’d better go.” Anderson nodded – as much as he did not care for Sherlock, he had developed a certain amount of respect that Donovan did not yet share. Taking up the small box of photos and notes they had already collected, Anderson took Donovan by the elbow and led her out into the stairwell. He shot John a slightly-apologetic look before Sherlock slammed the door in his face.

“The sheer _gall_ of that woman!” Sherlock huffed, pacing again. “To suggest that I would be so careless with Rosie in the flat –”

“It’s alright, they’ve gone,” John said, but Sherlock continued to move backward and forth in the room so hurriedly that John worried he might wear through the carpet. Grabbing the taller man by the elbow, John finally got him to stop walking. “Sherlock – it’s alright.”

“I’ve _never_ , John – not since you and Rosie moved in.” His grey eyes were filled with panic and John squeezed his arm reassuringly.

“I know.” He hadn’t known until just then. He’d wondered, but never asked. It had been obvious to John that Sherlock had not used since his last relapse, but he had honestly always suspected that he had kept a little bit – a security blanket – somewhere in the flat. Apparently not. “I know,” he said again, and Sherlock relaxed a little.

“John,” he said softly and John’s skin tingled at the almost tender sound of his name on Sherlock’s deep voice. “You have to know that I would never purposefully do anything to harm Rosie. Or you.” This last he said making the most open and sincere eye contact with John he had ever seen on that slim, sharp face. He had a sudden urge to put his hand on Sherlock’s pained face, but he shook it off.

“I know you wouldn’t.” There was a silent moment between them and John found he couldn’t keep staring into Sherlock’s eyes so intensely. “Go and check on Rosie, why don’t you? Make sure those two idiots didn’t wake her?” Sherlock nodded slowly before turning up the stairs to the room John shared with his daughter. Once he was gone, John took a steadying breath, off-balance from the intensity between them.

\---

The following morning, John was struggling to pull Rosie’s jumper over her constantly-moving head when Sherlock burst into their room. “John! I’ve got a lead from someone in the homeless network, let’s go!”

“If you haven’t noticed,” John said in a strained tone, “ _someone_ has decided to refuse her clothes this morning.” Rosie groaned, a temper building on her round face.

“Well of course she has, John,” Sherlock replied impatiently. “You’ve got the mouse jumper with the elephant leggings. Rodents and pachyderms do not mix – or don’t you watch cartoons?” At his matter-of-fact tone, John turned his gaze slowly on Sherlock in awe. The detective was nearly bouncing with energy, anxious to get a move on, oblivious to the absurdity of this revelation.

“Any issues with stripes?” he asked sarcastically. Sherlock did not catch his tone.

“Only with the hideous chartreuse and coral ones.”

“I like that one!” John replied, returning the mouse-printed garment to the drawer and searching for another.

“That’s because you’re almost wilfully-ignorant of style, John. Now, let’s go! The game is on!” Sherlock took the stairs three at a time as John pulled a new jumper over Rosie’s head, this one blue with pink polka-dots which did not elicit a tantrum. He picked her up and headed down the stairs himself to find Sherlock waiting at the door of the flat with John and Rosie’s coats in hand, waiting impatiently.

Sherlock took Rosie for himself and wrapped her in her dark blue peacoat – a remarkable likeness to his own – as John slipped into his favourite green jacket. Grabbing up his rucksack with medical and toddler supplies, John said, “Alright, let’s go.”

“The game is on!” Rosie cried out from Sherlock’s arms as they bounded down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk.

Their path wound through Marylebone and into Soho until the bundled-up Baker Street Three landed on the steps of the London Library, looking out over St. James’s Square. John glanced around expectantly, but saw no one he recognized. He had learned a few of the faces in Sherlock’s homeless network over the years, but the population changed so rapidly that he had a hard time keeping up. After a few minutes, Sherlock suddenly stopped bouncing Rosie in his grasp and pushed her into John’s arms. “Stay here.”

“I was planning on it,” John answered as Sherlock dashed across the road and took a running leap over the wrought-iron fencing of the park using a parking meter for leverage. This daredevil-ish action elicited a squeal of delight from Rosie and John couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Sherlock, so excited and energized. He landed in the shrubbery and ducked down until John lost sight of him. That made John uneasy – he liked to always have eyes on Sherlock, just in case. But with Rosie in-hand, he could hardly go running after him.

His brief panic subsided quickly as Sherlock popped back up like a gopher. Sherlock waved to John and they met at the gate of the park. In his hand, Sherlock held a slip of torn paper with very little writing on it, but he looked absolutely ecstatic. “Another woman, John. Still alive,” he answered John’s unasked question. “This is her corner. She wants to talk about the man they call Jack.”


	6. Day 6: "I've heard enough. This ends now."

“I’ve heard enough – this ends now.” John’s eyebrows were high and stern on his face as he held up a warning finger to his daughter. “You are staying here with Aunt Molly until Sherlock and I come collect you tomorrow morning.”

Rosie crossed her arms and stomped her foot and John was almost disappointed at how cliché she was being. She gripped her space printed quilt in a vice grip and scrunched up her face until more angry tears started to fall. Despite his frustration, John felt his will beginning to weaken.

“Rosie, listen to your father,” Sherlock said, remarkably calm, standing over John where he knelt in front of the little girl. “You’re going to have a lovely time with Molly and we are going to work.” Sherlock bent down and placed a surprisingly tender kiss on Rosie’s forehead.

“I want to go with you, Daddy!”

“I know you do, love, but you can’t. Not today.” John pulled her tight against him and kissed her head. “Now, I won’t see you at bedtime, so give me my kisses now so I can go to sleep later.” She pouted up at him, but he continued, “You _know_ I won’t be able to sleep without them.” Rosie nodded and bent her head forward obediently. He kissed her on the forehead, then tilted so she could do the same to him, before he kissed her little pink lips. “I love you. Have fun with Aunt Molly.”

“Love you, too. Love you, Sherlock.”

“Yes, yes. I love you, too,” Sherlock replied and despite his impatient tone, John knew he meant it. He smiled at the great softie disguised as an aloof detective and stood, his heart warming.

“We’ll have a grand time,” Molly said, lifting Rosie into her arms. “You two be safe.” John nodded and stepped back out onto the stoop. As she closed the door behind her, Molly said to Rosie, “How would you like to bake sugar cookie corpses?”

The door to Molly’s flat closed behind them, John and Sherlock turned to face the battlefield – the dark and dangerous streets of London. “After you, then.”

“Finally!” Sherlock bounded from the stoop and started jogging blindly down the street as he typed out a mystery text.

John started after him, calling out, “Foot’s feeling better, then?”

“Never better, John! Never better!”

After about two blocks, a sleek black towncar slowed to a halt and Sherlock threw the door open. He held it and waited for John to get in before sliding in himself. “Mycroft?” John asked, looking about the car’s nondescript interior.

“Obviously.” He settled into his seat and stared excitedly out the window. As the car took off, John felt a jostle against his knee and looked down. Sherlock’s leg was bouncing wildly, brushing against John’s with every movement. Suddenly, Sherlock clapped his hand down onto John’s knee, nearly causing his heart to stop. “John!” Why did he always say John’s name? No matter what he was thinking or feeling, he _had_ to utter John’s name and sometimes, it drove him mad with some feeling he did not want to examine. “The woman you’re meeting is called Julia – she’s been working for this Jack character for three years and my sources tell me she knew the victim.”

“ _I’m_ meeting her – not you?”

“Can’t risk being seen collecting her,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. “Just get her into the car and we’ll all talk together.”

“It’s not a risk for _me_ to be seen with her?”

“You’re not as recognizable.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Celebrity Detective, but I’m the one with the blog,” John answered smartly.

“And I’m the one with the face.” Said face was already turned back to the window and John huffed an exasperated laugh.

“And the humility, apparently.” Sherlock removed his hand from John’s knee as he took up his phone again and John bit his lip at the loss.

“Better than the hat.” That earned Sherlock a genuine chuckle. They travelled in silence for several more minutes until the car pulled over at Harrod’s on Brompton Road. “She’ll meet you at the Cartier counter.”

“Harrod’s? Not exactly the seedy location I was imagining to pick up a prostitute.” John leaned over Sherlock to stare up at the iconic building which positively oozed of class.

“We’re dealing with a different class of criminal here, John,” Sherlock replied, following John’s gaze out. “Everything is much more discreet – apps and digital currency and all that. Julia only meets in public places and Harrod’s has exemplary security.”

John took in a breath through his nose and nodded. “Alright – I’m off.” Sherlock did not move, merely turned back to his phone and began typing at a blinding pace. “Sherlock?”

With a frustrated sigh, Sherlock pressed himself against the back of his seat and opened the car door. Clearly, he had no intention of moving for John’s convenience. Rolling his eyes, John crouched in the car and crawled awkwardly across Sherlock’s long legs. He managed to get his feet out and underneath him, placing a hand on the seat for balance. Only it wasn’t the seat, it was Sherlock’s thigh, warm and firm under his hand.  John jerked his hand away as if he were on fire and nearly tumbled onto the sidewalk, but Sherlock did not so much as look up. How dense could the man be?

Silently, Sherlock reached out and slammed the door shut before John even had time to be embarrassed. Taking a steadying breath, John squared his shoulders and marched into the store. He had _not_ just groped Sherlock Holmes in a government towncar and he had _certainly_ not enjoyed it a little. Trying to look calm, casual, and relaxed, John walked through the fine jewellery department until he saw the Cartier display.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, catching sight of the price tags. His eye flew open as he stared at a miniscule pair of earrings that cost the same as a car. They _were_ rather lovely, but who in their right mind…

“Amazing what people spend their money on, isn’t it?” A soft voice pulled John from his reverie and he did a double-take when he saw the woman standing next to him. She was absolutely gorgeous, with softly curling blonde hair and a gentle face. And she was standing rather close to him, but he was hardly about to complain.

With a grin, John replied, “Well, there’s nothing wrong with having a little something pretty.”

She met his gaze with a flirtatious dip of her lashes. “What about me?” John couldn’t keep his eyes from wandering as he marvelled at her – was she aware of how average he was? “Am I pretty enough for you, John?”

“I –” John started, but a realization hit him. He hadn’t mentioned his name. “Julia?”

“Just so.” Julia slipped her arm into the crook of John’s elbow and nodded her head toward the door. That’s when he saw the tattoo on her arm – a barcode just inside her left elbow. “Why don’t we go somewhere a little less… sparkly.” She grinned and as they started to leave the store, John felt his mobile buzz in his pocket.

_Just play along – make her feel comfortable. SH._

Wasn’t he playing along just fine? Sherlock thought he knew everything.

“Your wife?” Julia asked playfully.

“No, no – just a, ah, a sale at Waterstone’s. Much more my speed.” John pocketed his mobile and resumed leading the way. “I’ve got a car waiting on the corner.”

“Oh, I get the fancy treatment, then?” They smiled together and John was amazed at the ease he felt around her. But then, he supposed, that was her job. She was rather… well, rather classier than he had expected. He’d never solicited a prostitute before but he had encountered his fair share working with Sherlock and the Yard and they were never so sweet and healthy-looking. They reached the car and John opened the door for Julia and she slid smoothly inside before John heard her exclaim at the sight of Sherlock in the car. “What’s going on? Who are you?”

John quickly got in behind her and started, “It’s alright, this is –”

“Not to worry, Miss,” Sherlock said in his most disarming tone. “I’m John’s partner – you’ve got nothing to fear from me.” His smile was calming and genuine, but John was taken aback when Sherlock placed a gentle hand on John’s knee and leaned slightly against his shoulder. Sitting across from them in the reverse-seat, Julia visibly relaxed and the meaning of Sherlock’s text became clear.

She eyed them, still a little suspicious, and asked, “What do you want with me then? I don’t usually let partners watch without advance notice.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Sherlock laughed and squeezed John’s knee affectionately. John tried not to tense under his touch, despite the tingle that went through his veins. “We’re detectives – we would like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“You’re with Scotland Yard?”

“Yes.”

“Have you got a badge?”

“Oh, of course.” Sherlock reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and produced a reasonable facsimile of a police badge. John had one, as well – they had been a very secret gift from Greg last Christmas, who was tired of having his own badge stolen and Sherlock throwing his name around like confetti.

“Sherlock Holmes?” Julia looked back at him in surprise. “I didn’t realize…”

“That’s quite alright, really,” Sherlock waved away her shock and took his badge back. “Do you mind if we ask you some questions about a co-worker of yours?”

\---

Over an hour later, the car pulled to a stop in Whitechapel and Julia slid out onto the sidewalk. No sooner had she exited the vehicle did Sherlock retract his hand and his affectionate behaviour. John got out behind Julia to speak to her before she got too far down the street. “Hey – thanks so much for your help.”

She turned and gave John a strained smile as she wiped away the few glistening tears on her cheeks. “Of course – I’m just so torn up about Danielle. But I don’t want what happened to her to happen to anyone else.” John wished he had a hankie, but they weren’t very hygienic so he never carried one.

“We’re going to do our best,” he reassured her. “Call us if you need anything, or if you get into any trouble.” Julia nodded solemnly and took a collecting breath. “Thanks again, Julia.”

“Actually,” she said with a wistful smile, “my real name’s Mary.”

John’s shoulders fell at that and he felt very much as if he had been punched in the stomach. Somehow, he had not thought much about his own Mary in quite some time, and whenever that happened he felt incredibly guilty. The woman in front of him turned to walk away and John managed to say in a choked tone, “Be safe.”


	7. Day 7: "No worries. We still have time."

“No worries, we still have time.” Sherlock was on his mobile when John returned to the car. As he slid into the back seat, the detective continued, “Because that woman’s already dead, Lestrade, and so far we have no reason to suspect he will kill again right away. Now, listen, you know I don’t –” Sherlock’s voice cut off suddenly and John looked over to see those mercurial grey eyes studying him. “Lestrade, I’ll text you later.” He abruptly hung up and stared intently at John. “You’re upset.”

John’s mouth fell open a bit at Sherlock’s observation, but he cleared his throat and looked away. “No, I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.” He wasn’t asking, he was certain, and that almost made John angry. But the way his brows sat heavy over his eyes made him look… concerned? “What happened? Everything was fine when you got out of the car.” John was still silent. “Was it our ruse? About pretending to be a couple?”

That made John’s heart constrict. “No – no. It wasn’t you – that was… fine.” More than fine, but he wasn’t going to say that.

“Then what is it?”

“The, ah…” John looked back at Sherlock from under his own furrowed brows and his mouth screwed up as he struggled to vocalize his feelings. “Julia, she… she told me her real name is Mary.”

“Oh.” Sherlock cast his eyes about for something to say or do. “And she reminded you of –”

“Yes,” John answered tersely. There was another heavy pause before Sherlock did something that nearly caused John’s heart to stop. He placed his hand on John’s knee again and squeezed gently. Not playacting, not for anyone’s benefit except John’s. Unable to stop his chest from twitching with suppressed tears, John placed his hand over Sherlock’s.

\---

They remained in that configuration, silent in the backseat of the towncar, until they arrived back at Baker Street. Then Sherlock removed his hand from John’s leg and the skin there felt suddenly cold. Sherlock was already texting as he reached the front door and paused, waiting for John to come around and open it. Annoyed again, John took his time coming up the stoop. In they went, up the stairs, and John unlocked the door to their flat.

Sherlock stepped in first and pocketed his mobile. He turned to stare at John as he shut the door and hung up his jacket. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“Why you’re upset.” Sherlock cocked his head and looked rather like a tall bird.

“Why would I want to talk about it?” John felt very tired, but they had to keep working. Rosie would be coming home tomorrow and they needed to do what they were going to do before bringing her back into the flat.

“That’s what partners do.” He was always so matter-of-fact, and while it often came off as very annoying and condescending, it occasionally felt very genuine. This was one of those times.

“’Partners’?” John chuffed, pushing past Sherlock to exit the small foyer. “You don’t usually call me your partner. Your blogger. Occasionally your friend. And since you started watching _Doctor Who_ , your companion.” That one was cute once and very condescending every time thereafter.

“Yes. Life partners.” That gave John pause.

With a sigh, he held up a hand and said, “Don’t… don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t know what it means, Sherlock.” John flopped into his chair with abject exhaustion and placed his head in his hand. Why did Sherlock’s declaration make him so sad?

“I’m a very intelligent man, John.” Sherlock sat in his own chair, elbows on his knees, leaning forward and staring intently at John. “Try me.” The low timbre of his voice made John’s eyes fall shut.

He took in another deep breath and sat up. This was something Sherlock didn’t understand and that was part of John’s job as Sherlock’s friend – to help him understand. “Because life partners is something else, its… not just mates. They’re… _mates_.” Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted together and he tilted his head again. “I mean… _soulmates_. Two halves of one life. Two people who… _need_ each other and share everything and stay with one another no matter how hard it gets because they love one another.” John finally stopped avoiding Sherlock’s gaze and was surprised by how confused he looked.

“But… that’s what we are,” he replied.

“No, it’s not the same th–”

“Yes, it is.” Sherlock’s tone was surer, more insistent, and John quieted. “We share everything. We live together, we share holidays and family events – I have an equal part in raising Rosie, which flies in the face of all logic. You came back to me even after I faked my death and I have been here for you as best I know how since you lost Mary. You killed a man for me, and I for you, and I would do it a thousand times over to protect you and Rosie and to keep you here with me because I _do_ need you, John,” Sherlock finished, having nearly run out of breath.

It was all too much. John stood from his chair, then realized he didn’t know what to do so he sat back down. The room was too small. Sherlock was too far away. His heartbeat was thumping in his ears so loudly he couldn’t hear anything else.

More than anything, Sherlock was right.

John was nearly panting as he said, “You need me?”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes wide and heart-wrenchingly open. “And… do you…”

“Yes.” The answer flew from John’s lips without thought, but as soon as the word escaped him, he knew it was true. “Yes. I need you, too.”

John was certain that he could feel Sherlock’s heart beating from across the coffee table. The hair on his arms and neck stood up with an electric charge as Sherlock stood slowly from his chair. Those long, beautiful hands reached out and cupped John’s face and surely he was dreaming as Sherlock bleeding Holmes bent down and tentatively kissed him full on the mouth.

It was such a gentle press of lips, so nervous and uncharacteristically shy that John didn’t want to breathe for fear of ruining the quiet of the moment. Sherlock pulled away, but John leaned forward and kissed him again, unaware of his intent to do so. After a moment, he realized that his hands were gripping the lapels of Sherlock’s obscene purple shirt so tight that his knuckles had gone white.

“John, I…” Sherlock started, pressing his forehead against the other man’s.

“I know,” he said, not wanting Sherlock to feel pressured. “I know you do.”


	8. Day 8: "I know you do."

“I know you do.”

The words hung heavy in the space between them and, for a moment, John thought he had upset Sherlock. Perhaps he had worked harder than John had realized to get the words into his mouth and now he had been cut short. The truth was that John _did_ love Sherlock – he felt it in bottom of his heart. He also felt very stupid for not having admitted it to himself before now. But it was too soon to say – it would make things too intense too fast. And John wanted things to be as comfortable and familial as it had always been.

But instead of being upset, Sherlock smiled. “I’m supposed to be the detective, John.” John laughed quietly, his breath ghosting out against Sherlock’s collarbone, and Sherlock visibly shivered.

Maybe they didn’t have to go _too_ slow.

John leaned up and planted a kiss at the juncture of Sherlock’s neck and shoulder before saying against his skin, “Should we get back to the case?”

Sherlock hummed as John’s lips traced their way up to that painfully-sharp jawbone and said, “It’ll keep.”

“I’ve never heard you refuse work before.” John nipped at the delicate skin just behind his ear, drawing out a stuttering sigh.

“You’ve never kissed my neck before,” Sherlock said, his fingers threading in John’s hair. “I am finding this to be a far more enjoyable activity at the moment.” With a flexibility John could never understand but would certainly come to appreciate, Sherlock melted against his body, fitting his knees into the chair on either side of John’s thighs. They sighed together as their thrumming bodies touched and John took Sherlock’s mouth in a searing kiss. His hands found their way into Sherlock’s hair – his amazing hair – and held him tightly to him as their tongues slid against each other. How was it even possible that that hair could be so soft and smooth, not a mass of tangles, but gentle, separate curls, each one perfect for John’s fingers?

They had to slow down or either go much, _much_ faster. John was leaning toward the latter, wanting desperately to forget his earlier sadness. He wanted to forget, too, how much time he had wasted in _not_ kissing Sherlock. Sherlock, whose hands made their way just inside the collar of John’s plaid shirt and were teasing at his buttons…

The buzzer went off and both men jumped.

“Client,” they whispered into each other’s mouths. A soft laugh floated between them, unsure of to whom it belonged.

“We’d better get back to work,” John murmured. Sherlock nodded, his forehead brushing against John’s.

“I’ve arranged for all the necessary witnesses to come here in hour-long increments while Rosie is away.” He still didn’t pull away. “Could be an unsavoury crowd – I didn’t want her around when –”

John cut him off with another impassioned kiss. He loved how much Sherlock loved her.

The buzzer sounded again – longer this time. Annoyed.

“Alright, alright,” Sherlock muttered, finally breaking their kiss. “The game is still on and apparently the game is impatient.” He slithered out of the chair and made for the door. But as he passed, he dropped a hand onto John’s shoulder and squeezed very briefly.


	9. Day 9: "You shouldn't have come here."

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

The man standing opposite the well-decorated flat had a very casual affect as he pointed a gun at Sherlock. _Sig Sauer P320. Increasingly popular with American law enforcement. Odd. Also used by Danish police – more likely obtained from a European source._

“And why is that?” Sherlock asked, his tone as even as ever.

“Because now I’m going to have to kill you,” the man said, casually shrugging his shoulders. _Two metres tall, 200 pounds, brown eyes, hair, beard. How boring. Gun tipped to the side. Ugh. Amateurs._

“Well, you don’t have to,” he replied flippantly. Sherlock stood from the armchair he had taken up by the fireplace and buttoned his suit jacket. He had been waiting for quite some time. The man’s eyebrows lowered. “Where’s Jack?”

“I’m Jack.”

“No, you’re not.”

“How would you know?”

 _Oh, so many ways_. “At the very least, I doubt that the sort of man who keeps careful inventory of his prostitutes is the sort of man who gets his hands dirty.”

“This is his flat,” the man replied as if this were evidence enough.

“But not ‘your’ flat.” The gunman’s face fell. “That makes you… the muscle, I’m guessing.” Of course, he wasn’t really guessing, but people were so fond of their colloquialisms. “What’s your name, Muscle Man?”

“What, can’t you work that out?” the man sneered. “You’re supposed to be so smart, aren’t you, Mister Holmes?”

“Of course I could work it out, but I don’t particularly care to,” Sherlock replied with a sigh. “I’d rather hurry this along, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a bedtime story to get to.” At that very moment, Mrs. Hudson was finishing up Rosie’s dinner and giving her extra shortbread biscuits before she attempted to put her in the bath.

“You’ve got kids, have you?” the man asked in surprise.

“That’s none of your business.” Sherlock clipped his tone and the gunman flinched. “Your name?”

“Thompson.”

“Thompson, right.” Sherlock rocked back on his heels and glanced around the flat. “Well, Thompson, since you’re not actually going to shoot me, why not put that gun down and tell me about Danielle?”

“What makes you think I’m not going to shoot you?”

“If you do, it will only be as an absolute last resort,” the detective replied, gesturing about. “This place is far too clean – obsessive, really, it reeks of cleanser – and I’m sure Jack would not want you to make a mess here. Otherwise, you might end up with your throat cut, as well. Now, tell me about Danielle.”

“Who’s Danielle?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “The girl you murdered four days ago – number twenty-one.”

“Oh, her,” Thompson replied, casually. “The pregnant one.”

“Killed a number of young women lately, have you?” Sherlock bit out.

“Man’s got to make a living.”

“Whose baby was it?” Sherlock demanded. “Jack’s?”

Thompson snorted. “Hardly. He’s more careful than that.”

Sherlock started to pace as he thought. “Who then? Someone important, obviously, and with money – you can’t come cheap.”

“Cheaper than buying her off.”

“ _Sshh_! Who would have something to lose? And what? Their marriage, a family – people don’t murder for that –” Well, _most_ people didn’t – John’s face swam into the forefront of his mind palace, but he pushed it away. “Their career? More likely, people are so attached to their jobs. But not just any job, no, something big, something _important_ , something they had to work for and people see them…” His voice trailed off and he turned on Thompson. “A politician. An MP?”

Thompson’s jaw clenched – he was on the right track.

“Right – the Minster for…” Sherlock spun around as his mind filtered through faces and names, locations, party alignments, marital status… He emitted a little gasp as the solution came to him. “The Minister for –”

“Alright,” Thompson cut him off, pointing his gun more directly at Sherlock. “That’s enough talk out of you –”

“But why cut her throat? Why not just shoot her?” Sherlock pressed on. “Taking the baby, I understand – evidence – but why go through the trouble of mutilating her that way?”

“Sends a better message. She was getting mouthy.” Thompson’s thumb released the safety mechanism and his pointer finger curled around the trigger. “Rather like you.”

“Where can I find Jack?” Sherlock asked, unshaken.

“You won’t.”

The deafening _crack_ that sounded through the air caused Sherlock to jump, even though he knew he was in no real danger. Thompson screamed excruciatingly and dropped his own weapon in favour of grasping at the wound above his knee. John stepped from around the kitchen island where he had been lying in wait, as per their plan. As Sherlock grabbed Thompson’s gun, John bent down and quickly checked his pulse and the location of the injury.

“He’ll live?”

“He’ll live,” John affirmed, his gun still trained on the wailing man on the floor.

“Pity.” Sherlock sniffed in disdain.

“Not for the case,” John said. “He’s our only link to Jack’s location.”

“I’ll never tell you!” Thompson cried and Sherlock let out an exhausted sigh,

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, of course you will,” he said. Turning to John, he said, “I imagine Lestrade is on the way.”

“Yes, and he’d very much like us to stop shooting people without a police presence.”

“Self-defence,” Sherlock said flippantly, unloading and dismantling Thompson’s gun. He placed the pieces in a neat row on the coffee table, waiting for Lestrade.

“We broke in to a complete stranger’s flat,” John said, adrenaline catching up to him and causing him to grin a little with nervous energy. “I don’t know that our own crime constitutes a position of self-defence.” At that moment, Thompson passed out from the pain. John knelt again to ensure that he was still in no danger of dying.

“You could always punch me again – make it look like a struggle.” Sherlock couldn’t help the grin that spread over his own face.

John’s face reddened with something unusual… embarrassment? He ducked his gaze – arousal, then. _Interesting_.

“Tempting,” John replied, bringing Sherlock out of his thoughts, “but let’s save that for sometime when you really bugger things up.”

“Or for when we get home.” Sherlock flicked an eyebrow and John’s mouth actually fell open. _Charming_.

“Sherlock are you… _flirting_ with me?”

“Obviously.”

John huffed a little laugh and looked about the room in disbelief. “It’s a crime scene, you maniac!”

“John, I’ve been flirting with you at crime scenes since the first day we met,” Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, his eyebrows raised as though to indicate that John really was being very thick. After a moment, John made that adorable face he always made – eyes wide, eyebrows up, mouth open but smiling. It always made Sherlock’s chest tighten.

“I suppose you have.”

\---

Two hours later – which was far too much later, in Sherlock’s opinion – Sherlock and John re-entered 221B with quiet steps. Sure enough, Mrs. Hudson was asleep on the couch, her head lolled to the side and her mouth agape, as Rosie sat nestled in the crook of her arm, still awake and watching _The Graham Norton Show_.

“No,” John said emphatically, picking up the remote and quickly turning off the telly.

“Oh, Daddy, _ple-ease_?” Rosie whined. “I like when he makes the chair flip back!”

“I don’t know who’s been letting you sit up and watch Graham Norton,” John answered in his firm-father voice, “but it is not appropriate and it is far too late.”

“The chair _is_ funny, John,” Sherlock put in, hanging up their coats. He was answered by a stern look from the doctor that definitely told him to _shut it_. “Why don’t I put Rosie to bed and you do the same with Mrs. Hudson?”

John narrowed his eyes, his expression clearly saying, _Don’t think you’ll get away with letting her sit up this late again_ , but handed the little girl over into Sherlock’s willing arms. “I’ll be up before long to give you kisses, Rosie-girl.” With that, he turned to Mrs. Hudson and began softly shaking her shoulder.

“Come along, Rosie,” Sherlock said, adjusting her against his hip, “we’ll watch the chair on YouTube tomorrow morning.” Carrying her up the stairs, Sherlock couldn’t help but press his nose against her soft curls. They smelled of baby shampoo and brought an insipid smile to his lips. She yawned and leaned her cheek against Sherlock’s sternum and his heart swelled painfully. How lucky he was to have this little girl in his arms.

She was already in her pyjamas after her bath – it was Thursday, so that meant the whale-print jammies – so Sherlock put her straight in her crib. She was getting a little big for it now; soon she’d have to move into a toddler bed. Sherlock had actually found one online that would expand into a full-sized twin as she grew, which seemed the most practical option. But he had ordered the one shaped like a pirate ship. It was only one size, but Rosie would prefer it. And so would Sherlock.

Laying her down on the soft mattress and wrapping her blankets around her, Sherlock leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. She was already so close to sleep, her eyes having drooped shut as the bouncing of his steps lulled her, but she opened her mouth and said around a yawn, “Good night, Papa.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open. His pulse was accelerated and his eyes were blown wide in the semi-darkness. She called John ‘Daddy’ – always had, never varied.

She was confused. She was also already asleep, so Sherlock couldn’t correct her. She was confused. Sherlock was panicked.

Rushing from the room with cat-like silence, Sherlock hissed in a loud whisper, “John! _John_!”

The doctor met him at the stairs, panic in his eyes. Mrs. Hudson was gone – that was good. _Don’t want to upset her, too._ “Sherlock? What’s wrong? Is Rosie –”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said, running his hands through his hair. “I think she’s confused. I put her to bed and she said to me, ‘Good night, _Papa_ ’!” John blinked in bewilderment. “’ _Papa’_ , John! You’re not ‘Papa’, you’ve always been ‘Daddy’!”

“I don’t… Sherlock, is she _okay_?” John insisted, starting past the slim detective.

“Physically, yes,” Sherlock continued, “But why would she say that?”

John stopped, now on the stair above Sherlock. His face went through several expressions in rapid sequence, Sherlock soaking up each one. _Fading panic, confusion, frustration, exhaustion… amusement?_ “Is it possible, Sherlock, that she meant _you_?”

“Impossible, I’m not her father,” Sherlock spat out, annoyed at John’s flippancy. John licked his lips and poorly stifled a smile.

“I think you are,” he said softly, placing both hands on Sherlock’s upper arms. His touch had a much-needed grounding effect and Sherlock sighed. Staring wide-eyed into Sherlock’s face, John continued, “I think I’m ‘Daddy’ and you’re –”

“Papa…” Sherlock breathed, blinking rapidly as realisation washed over him. He forced himself to meet John’s gaze and swallowed thickly. “John… I’m so sorry.”

John blinked at him in more confusion. “What for? Do – do you think this upsets me?”


	10. Day 10: "You think this troubles me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed "troubles" to "upsets" because it just felt more like John.

Sherlock was silent.

“You do – you think I’m upset.”

“Obviously.” There was such pain on his face – it was a rare sight, but John of all people could recognize it. John adjusted his grip on Sherlock’s arms, giving him a quick, comforting brush of the sleeves and nodded slightly, asking him to continue. “ _You’re_ her father, John. Not me. I don’t want… I’ve _never_ wanted to step on your toes, to get in the way of your raising Rosie.” Sherlock ducked his gaze and took a shaky breath. “I love her – really, I do – and I love being here for her, but if she ascribes such importance to me then it is inevitable that at some point, I am going to…” He trailed off and John’s chest tightened. He truly was scared.

“You think you’re going to… _mess her up_?” John suggested. Swallowing thickly, Sherlock nodded shortly, still not making eye contact. “Sherlock – Sherlock, look at me.” He did, but it was with great effort. “If Rosie turns out half as smart, as passionate, as – as _remarkable_ as you, she will be incredibly lucky.”

Sherlock’s eyes were so wide, so soft and questioning; his mouth was slightly agape in that way it only was when he was well and truly shocked. He was terrified that John would be so upset that he would take Rosie away. But he could never do that. Not now. Not after all they had moved passed.

“I’m not so sure…” Sherlock said softly.

“Honestly, Sherlock, if it were just me raising her, _then_ she’d be in trouble.” John offered Sherlock a little smile, hoping to relieve the tension. Instead of relaxing, Sherlock stood straighter and his eyebrows fell with severity.

“John,” he said, his tone very insistent, “you are the best father – the best man – Rosie could ever ask for.” John hated when people said things like that to him. If only they knew – knew how angry he felt sometimes, that Mary was gone, what she had done; how the world looked at him and saw such a small, quiet doctor; how much he _needed_ the danger and the adventure Sherlock offered him. But Sherlock knew, didn’t he? He’d always seen John as so good, so strong, so kind. And Sherlock _was_ the most observant man he’d ever met. If Sherlock saw him that way, perhaps it was true.

“Well, then I guess she’s lucky to have us both, isn’t she?” John said, his throat tight. Sherlock’s expression finally softened. Slowly, he nodded and let out a little sigh before he leaned forward and pressed his head against John’s chest. John’s arms wrapped around his shoulders without thought and he breathed in the sweet smell of Sherlock’s shampoo mixed with the unique smell of _him_.

After a moment, Sherlock whispered, “John?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think I could convince her to change it to ‘Pater’?”


	11. Day 11: "But I will never forget!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has feelings and he's never sure how he feels about that.

_“But I will never forget!”_

John’s words rang out in the sitting room. Even Rosie was quiet. Even _Sherlock_ was quiet.

It had started in the kitchen. Two days into being Papa, Sherlock was practically high on fatherhood. He carried Rosie everywhere, despite her ability to walk for more than two years. He hummed that frustrating song John had learned in grade seven that listed all the elements (John preferred the original _Modern Major-General_ ). He made breakfast, albeit the toast was a little uneven after being scorched on the Bunsen burner gauze. Generally speaking, Sherlock had been a bouncier, more considerate version of himself than John had ever seen. It was almost unnerving.

True to his nature, John felt guilty that he was so distrusting of Sherlock’s mood. He was happy – he was happy with Rosie and with John. Why shouldn’t John feel happy? Perhaps because it likely wouldn’t last and just when he’d get used to the idea of Sherlock cheerfully making burnt toast every morning, he would crash back into one of his sulks and that would be that. Or possibly, just maybe, because John had no right to be so happy to see Sherlock so happy with his daughter. _Their_ daughter? Rosie seemed to think so. She would never know Mary and would have a perfectly amazing and fulfilling hodgepodge family, but John would never forget her. Would never forget what Rosie was missing without even knowing it.

All of these swirling thoughts were what caused John to snap irrationally when Sherlock bounded back into the flat with Rosie in his arms that day.

“Where have you bloody-well been?” John demanded as Sherlock plopped Rosie into her high-chair.

Sherlock’s eyes were wide – he was taken aback. Good. John never got the chance to take him aback.

“We were at the Yard,” he answered slowly. “Lestrade phoned about the case and we went to see him about it.”

“And you thought it appropriate to take Rosie with you?” John could feel that he was being irrational, but he hadn’t slept well since he had shot that man – he never did for a few days after – and things between him and Sherlock were so… _odd_. They’d just decided that they liked each other – loved each other – kissed once and hopped right on over to co-parenting. What were _they_? The three of them were a family, but what were the _two_ of them?

“Rosie goes to the Yard all the time,” Sherlock replied, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion and frustration. “I didn’t think –”

“No, Sherlock, you didn’t think. You _never_ think.”

“Well, that’s wrong and we both know it. I never stop thinking.”

“Don’t be smart with me.”

“Don’t be cross with me!” Sherlock finally snapped back. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I come home from the surgery to an empty house – Mrs. Hudson doesn’t have Rosie, you’re not here, what am I supposed to do but panic?” John rationalised. Of course, it was ridiculous. He was supposed to assume that Sherlock would take care of her.

“I did leave you a note,” Sherlock said. John took a small step back, squaring his shoulders as he often did when he was angered by his own confusion.

“What?”

Sherlock pointed over to John’s chair. There, propped against the Union Jack pillow like a flat little person, sat a large piece of blue craft paper. In Sherlock’s nearly-illegible scrawl, John deciphered, “John – gone to S.Y. Lestrade got a lead. Taking Rosie. Be back by tea. – S.”

John huffed a breath through his nose. How incredibly uncharacteristic. Sherlock usually texted – why hadn’t he texted?

“That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note?”

_A note when?_

A cold shiver went from the back of John’s neck all the way to his knees. How dare Sherlock say that – _that_ – to him ever again? Jaw clenched, John raised an admonishing finger, but could not bring himself to speak.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice snapped him out of his frozen panic.

“Don’t – _ever_ – say that to me again, do you understand?” His voice was low, rasping, and Sherlock’s eyes filled with sudden realisation and terror.

“John – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” Sherlock fumbled about for the right words, his large hand resting comfortingly on Rosie’s head. Then, almost meekly, he said, “I forgot.”

“You forgot?” John was nearly shouting now. “How could you forget that?”

“They’re just words, John –”

“They are so far from ‘just’ words and you know it,” he panted in anger. That was the crux of it, right there. Sherlock could betray him again, just like he had before. Just like Mary had. Anything could happen and all this perfect happiness could be snatched away and John would be left mourning all over again. And he wasn’t sure if he could survive it. “I’ll never forget the sound of you saying that to me before you… before I thought you….” He swallowed and took a deep breath. “I know it wasn’t real, but it _felt_ real to me, Sherlock, and I don’t know if I could manage it if…. You can do that – you can forget things, Sherlock, that are so much more important than you let them be. But I will never forget!”

There was the silence.

After quite possibly the longest moment that ever was, Sherlock lifted Rosie from her chair, placed her on the floor, and gave her rump a little pat. “Rosie, why don’t you see if Mrs. Hudson has any of those biscuits you like?” She shot John a confused look before nodding to Sherlock and toddling off toward the hallway. Sherlock watched her go carefully down the stairs and into Mrs. Hudson’s flat before turning slowly back to John. Again, John felt that betraying sense of anger bubble up in his chest – all of a sudden, Sherlock was a responsible parent? Without having changed any of the terrible infant nappies or waking up at all hours before she got on a regular feeding schedule? Without taking her to the clinic that time she had the croup or icing her dummy when her teeth were cutting in?

That wasn’t fair, either. Mary had been there and John had been… away.

“John,” Sherlock finally spoke, his voice drawing John’s gaze upward. “I am sorry. I never should have said… _that_. And I never will again.” He stepped forward and made as if to put his hands on John’s arms, but thought better of it. “I’ll never _do_ that again. I swear it.”

One thing about Sherlock – when he was honest, you could tell. There was a very distinct difference in Sherlock’s mind between acting and lying. He would act as anything or anyone to get information or even to help someone, but he would never lie. At the moment, John almost hated his earnestness. He wanted so badly to be allowed to be angry with Sherlock – to be angry with anyone. Truly, he was just afraid. He had endured war, and injury, and tragic loss, but he was afraid of losing Sherlock again.

Sherlock sighed and seemed to work up the courage to say something. “John, if you don’t want to… do _this_ ,” he gestured between them, “I understand. Truly. I haven’t done anything to earn it.”

John was quiet, but his heart rate had eased. Sherlock continued.

“But if you _do_ , if you want to… be together… I will do everything in my power to earn it for the rest of my days.”

There was another heavy silence before John finally let out a long-held breath.

“The truth is, Sherlock,” he said softly, “that I haven’t done anything to earn you, either. But I will.” He nodded gently at Sherlock, trying to reassure him that this was, in fact, a momentary aberration. John reached forward and squeezed Sherlock’s long, bony fingers in his own before saying, “Just… text me next time. Okay?” Sherlock nodded.

They would be fine.


	12. Day 12: "Who could do this?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another murder brings Sherlock and John back to the case.

“Who could _do_ this?”

Lestrade was, as always, baffled. _Ridiculous_ , Sherlock thought. The answer was clear – Jack’s hired gunmen had done this. Thompson, the one John had shot and held for the police, was obviously just one of many killers on Jack’s payroll – a rotating roster of hired guns to ensure that no one of them would have too much information.

Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were all standing still, staring up at the body of a young woman who had been hanged in a small abandoned warehouse in Lambeth. Her long blonde hair hung limply around her conventionally attractive face. Or, at least, it _had_ been attractive, until her killer had sliced out her tongue and tucked it into the top pocket of her blouse. It was lucky for Lestrade and his investigators that Sherlock not only had a good memory for faces, but enough of an imagination to recognise the woman, even after her features had bloated and swollen with the affects of asphyxiation and burst capillaries. It was Julia – or, as she had confided to John, Mary.

John was making a thin, whining sound in the back of his throat as he struggled to take in the scene before them. His jaw worked anxiously, his bottom lip folded in, and the fingers of his right hand jumped and clenched in anger. “John?” Sherlock ventured softly, but was answered by John’s swiftly turning his head aside as he struggled to keep his composure.

It took a moment, but John finally took a deep breath through his nose and looked back at Mary’s body. Without another glance at either Sherlock or Lestrade, he stepped forward and began his examination.

“Asphyxiated – her spine appears intact, so it took a while.” He cleared his throat, but soldiered on. “Tongue removed with a short, serrated blade just after death.” John glanced around behind her, taking in the whole picture. “Hands bound – she couldn’t fight back. I’d say, since her clothes all seem to be in place, that there is little chance of sexual assault.” Dark blue eyes finally met Sherlock’s and he nodded slightly, handing the investigation over. He cared so much – how could he do that? He had only met this woman once and yet he was incredibly moved and angered by her death. _Remarkable_.

Sherlock traded places with John, taking out his magnifier and looking over every inch of Mary’s body. _Dead twelve hours, abducted while leaving a client. Purse on the floor, nothing missing. Small injury to the back of the head – rendered unconscious and brought here by her killer. Must have had a car – can’t be seen dragging a woman through the streets into the warehouse. Likely had an accomplice to drive._

“Sending a message, I suppose?” Lestrade said, his voice breaking a little.

“Obviously.”

“We spoke to her a few days ago,” John expanded, his arms crossed and his eyes downcast. “She gave us some information that helped us find Jack’s address – she didn’t know it herself, but she knew where he spends his time.”

“And this Jack character – he’s clearly got more than one killer on call,” continued Lestrade. “We’ve got the other one in custody.”

“I imagine he’ll have several,” Sherlock confirmed. He stood upright and captured John’s gaze with his own. “I have what I need – let’s go home.”

“You don’t want to –” John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

“No. Let’s go.” Sherlock spared Lestrade a passing glance and said, “I’ll text you when I find the killer.”

“ _Before_ you shoot him?”

“I’ll do my best.” With that, Sherlock led John out of the cordoned crime scene and into the street. John took a deep, sharp breath of fresh air, but turned to Sherlock with a look of confusion.

“Why did you want to leave so fast? Are you okay?”

“Yes, but you’re not.” Sherlock put out a hand to flag down a cab and gave John a direct look, examining his expression. “You’re clearly very upset by Mary’s death.”

“Can…” John shuffled his feet, “can we call her ‘Julia’?”

 _Ah_ , Sherlock thought. _It’s reminding him of her. But she died under very different circumstances… Why would he…_ _Is the name enough? Blonde hair, similar height and build._ Perhaps John’s emotions didn’t have to be logical. That was something he had tried to impart to Sherlock before, but he’d always struggled to comprehend the notion. All that mattered was that he was upset and Sherlock didn’t want to make it any worse.

“Yes, of course. Julia.” They were quiet for a moment as they clambered into the newly-arrived taxi.

Staring out the window as the cab wound through the dark streets of London, John finally said, “We should have done better, Sherlock. We should have protected her – we knew the danger she was in after she talked to us and we just let her go on about her life.”

“I know.” Sherlock felt John’s surprised gaze land on him.

“You do?”

“Yes, I do. It’s our fault she’s dead.” He turned his phone rapidly in his hand, mind racing as he tried to set his emotions aside and focus on finding the parties responsible. It was harder and harder for him to compartmentalise since John had come back into his life. “But I’m going to put a stop to this. Now.”

Sherlock nearly jumped when John’s hand landed gently on top of his own where it rested in the seat between them. _How pleasant_.


	13. Day 13: "Try harder next time."

“Try  _ harder _ next time,” John murmured, striking the side of his fist against the shower tile. The water was too hot, nearly scalding his skin, but it was what he needed. Just enough pain to ground him, to remind him that he was alive and that he had a job to do. John clenched his eyes shut and tried to focus on his breathing. In. Out. In.

 

He had needed to see Rosie - to see something perfect and alive and safe - but it was late and she was already asleep when they had gotten home. Molly, who had watched her, gave John a sympathetic pat on the arm before she left and he trod quietly up the stairs to lay eyes on his daughter. 

 

She  _ was _ perfect. His rosey little Rosie, warm and pink and whole in her bed. The sight of her restored him a little. But he was tired, too. Exhausted, really. He had touched Rosie’s head as softly as he ever had and went downstairs to wash the day from him.

 

Julia’s body swam before his mind’s eye, but he shook his head and pushed the image away. Sherlock’s countenance took her place and John focussed on him. On the sharp lines of his face and the soft curls of his hair. And his eyes.  _ There _ , John sighed. Sherlock’s eyes would be his anchor. They always had been. John had always been able to seek out Sherlock’s gaze and find solid ground.

 

He remembered Sherlock’s eyes when they had met John’s in such earnesty and nervousness a few nights ago. “ _ And… do you…” _

 

“ _ Yes. Yes, I need you, too. _ ”

 

And then Sherlock had kissed him and  _ God _ , it had been everything. His hands cupping John’s face, their bodies pressed hard and hot against each other. And Sherlock’s tongue -  _ Jesus, his tongue _ \- swirling about John’s and pulling a moan from deep within him. What else could he do with that tongue?

 

John could imagine it now. Sherlock could run his tongue along John’s neck - his fingers danced gently there, mimicking the sensation and John shivered. He traced his hand down his chest, drawing a line for Sherlock’s imaginary tongue to follow. And when his hand finally wrapped around his hardening cock, it was Sherlock’s beautiful mouth he saw there. Those eyes, blown wide and darkened with lust, looked up and held John’s gaze on him.

 

His lips were swollen and red in no time, massaging their way up and down his shaft. His touch was so gentle that John ground his hips, hungry for more. His hair was soaked and dripping about his face under the spray of the shower, the water mingling with his saliva and slickening John’s cock. Finally,  _ finally _ , Sherlock closed his lips around John’s shaft, swallowed down half of his length, and  _ sucked _ .

 

“ _ Jesus _ ,” John breathed out, his voice muffled against the skin of his forearm. He was close now, so close, and his fingers darted back to tickle at his balls in place of Sherlock’s. With a shudder, his grip resumed around his shaft, thumb rolling around the head and he could  _ feel _ Sherlock’s tongue circling him, sucking at the tip. Then he came, hard and fast, pressed nearly flat against the shower wall as his hips bucked forward.

 

Despite the searing heat of the water, John felt a cold shiver of guilt. A woman was dead and he was imagining being sucked off by Sherlock like a desperate teenager with his dick in his hand. He should learn to better compartmentalise.  He rinsed himself thoroughly and threw off the tap before stepping out and wrapping himself in a towel.

 

Sherlock had no hesitation leaving the bathroom in only a low-slung towel, but John possessed a modicum of modesty. Now that things between them were so up-in-the-air, John didn’t want to make Sherlock uncomfortable by putting himself on display, especially while they were on a case. And, truth be told, if he should catch Sherlock eyeing his naked body, he wasn’t sure he could stop himself from doing something about it. And so, John struggled in the humidity of the bathroom into an old pair of pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt.

 

The steam of the bathroom rolled out behind John as he padded into the sitting room, stretching to relieve the last of the tension in his shoulders. Sherlock was sitting in his chair his elbows on his knees and his lips barely touching the tips of his steepled fingers. John swallowed as he made the mistake of looking at Sherlock’s mouth. But when the detective’s sharp blue eyes met his own, he felt a traitorous rush in his abdomen.

 

Sherlock’s eyebrow arched and his tilted his head ever-so-slightly. “You were masturbating.” It was not a question.

 

John sighed, his neck flushing, and he dropped into his own chair with resignation. “How could you  _ possibly _ know that?”

 

Sherlock still did not move his hands, just continued to stare. “Do you really want to know?”

 

A sound rather like a laugh escaped John’s lips. “No, I don’t suppose I do.”

 

“So I was right?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

A small smirk graced Sherlock’s face as John threw his own catch-phrase back at him. After a short pause, during which John grabbed up their shared notes on the case, Sherlock spoke again. “Were you thinking of me?”

 

John stared resolutely at the papers in his hand. “Yes.” There was never any sense in lying to Sherlock.

 

“I guessed as much.”

 

“Guessed?”

 

“Hoped.”

 

It was John’s turn to smirk. So they were flirting now. John could do flirting. “Maybe I’ll ask you to join me next time.”

 

“Please do.” Sherlock answered without missing a beat and John marvelled at the detective's own prowess. Sherlock leaned backward in his chair and crossed one ankle over the other knee, looking remarkably dashing and casual. “But for now, John, I must ask you not to distract me. The game, as you know, is still on. I cannot be consumed with sexual fantasies until the case is closed.” John nodded, his chest constricting at Sherlock’s blunt words. He thought about John, too, as much as he thought about Sherlock, apparently.

 

“I’m going to bed,” John said, standing slowly from his seat.

 

“Why?”

 

“Sleep helps regular people to function,” he explained. “I’ll think clearer tomorrow if I can put today behind me.” Sherlock nodded, his eyes still halfway between John and his thoughts. As John passed, he said softly, “Good night, Sherlock.”

 

“Good night, John.” Without glancing up and without apparent thought, Sherlock’s hand reached up and grabbed John’s before he could go. He gave his fingers a gentle squeeze before re-entering his Mind Palace completely.


	14. Day 14: "Some people call this wisdom."

“Some people call this wisdom.”

 

“Well, I call it fear. Old age. Complacency,” Sherlock spat out the words as if they had an unpleasant taste. His legs bounced up and down and his fingers danced on the armrest of his chair. John tried to swallow the little smile that arose at the sight of him.

 

“Sherlock, you called the police to handle a police matter,” John reasoned calmly. “You had Rosie with you - it was very responsible of you to call Greg and let the Yard handle it.”

 

“It was _hateful_ , John, hateful!” Sherlock bounced upright from the chair and spun around in Lestrade’s office, trying to rid himself of some excess energy. “I could have brought him in, interrogated him on the spot, caught him off guard, gotten far more information out of him than these damnable _police_ possible can -”

 

“Stop right there.” John grabbed Sherlock by the upper arms and spun him until they were facing each other. “You did the right thing. If you’re going to be Rosie’s ‘Papa’, you have to put her first. Always. And you did that without hesitation.”  John paused for a brief moment, but eventually decided to voice his feelings. “I’m… proud of you, Sherlock. You did good.”

 

“‘ _Well_ ’, John. I did ‘well’.”

 

“Too right you did.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and John smirked. It made Sherlock happy when John was clever. Luckily for Sherlock, John was often clever - more clever than people assumed, which was ridiculous on their parts. John was quite possibly one of the cleverest men Sherlock had ever had the pleasure to know.

 

“Daddy! Papa!” Rosie bounded back into the room, Lestrade not far behind. He had taken her to get a juice from the special little Rosie-sized refrigerator in the break room while John calmed Sherlock down. “Officer Greg took me to have my picture drawn by the… uh…”

 

“Sketch artist,” Lestrade filled in.

 

“Yeah! Look at it!” She practically leapt into John’s arms, the portrait in her hand, and waved it under Sherlock’s nose. He examined the paper closely.

 

“You’re much prettier than this,” he said matter-of-factly. Rosie was not phased by this statement.

 

“The sketch artist draws crim-nals!” Rosie continued excitedly. “Except me - he draws crim-nals and me.”

 

“I reckon you’re the most lovely non-criminal he’s drawn in quite some time.” John pressed a kiss to the side of her head before turning to Lestrade. “How’s the interview going?”

 

“Done,” Lestrade said proudly. “Thankfully, Sherlock called us early enough that we were able to get him into custody before he left this evening. He had this woman’s photo in his pocket,” he handed over a small wallet-sized photo to Sherlock, who brought it close to his face and set about memorising every detail. “You were right - he was after her, too.”

 

“Did he say if there are any others? Any other hitmen or women in danger?” Sherlock demanded.

 

“One more gunman,” Lestrade answered, “and just this woman. For now. We’re on our way to pick up the last assassin now.”

 

“Why was he so eager to talk?” John mused, suspicion setting in. Thompson had been so keen to protect Jack - why would this man be so keen to sell him out?

 

“It’s a gambit,” Sherlock answered, his eyebrows set with thought. “Putting someone away to make the police complacent.” He ran his fingers over his cheeks, pinching his lips like a fish. Rosie laughed, but he didn’t hear it. “You need to find every single one of Jack’s girls, put them in protective custody until this whole thing is done.”

 

“I’ve got people out looking for them but, Sherlock, I can’t house them all. We haven’t got the resources to -”

 

“I won’t have this man kill another woman because of _resources_ , Lestrade!” Sherlock snapped. He whipped out his wallet and handed over his Coutts Silk Card. Lestrade’s eyes widened at the sight of it and he reached out as if for the Holy Grail. “Put them all up in a hotel - high security - until the case is settled.”

 

“I can’t take this, Sherlock.”

 

“You can and you will.” The detective swept his coat from the back of the chair and wrapped it around himself with an unnecessary flourish. “Call me when I need to testify.” With that, Sherlock strode from the office, his nose buried in his mobile as he walked.

 

There was a moment of stunned silence while Lestrade stared down at the nearly-unlimited wealth in his hand before John shifted Rosie in his arms and made for the door. “Where did he get this?”

 

“Mycroft,” John answered. “He never uses it. Except in emergencies.” John gave Lestrade a short nod, which he returned with one of amazement, and he and Rosie left.

 

\---

 

John taped Rosie’s portrait up on the wall next to her own crayon sketches and she beamed sleepily at him from her new pirate ship bed. “D’you think I could draw like that, Daddy?”

 

“You can do anything, Rosie-girl,” John said, his voice low and soft. She yawned as he bent down to pet her head.

 

“I prolly need to practise,” she mumbled, eyelids drooping.

 

“That’s a fine idea. We’ll start tomorrow.” John kissed her on the forehead, she returned the gesture, then he kissed her on the lips. “Good night, sweetheart.”

 

“‘Night, Daddy. And night-night to Papa, too.” She was asleep by the time he closed the door.

 

Sherlock was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, a large container of vindaloo in his lap, staring raptly at the telly. John dropped down next to him and smiled to see him eating so ravenously. “Rosie says night-night.”

 

“Mmm,” he nodded in acknowledgment, his mouth full. Sherlock swallowed thickly before asking, “Does she like her bed?”

 

“Of course she does. It’s harder than ever to get her to go to sleep, so thanks for that.” John reached forward and took up his own container of tikka masala, gladly tucking in. It was deliciously spicy and he followed a large bite with a large swig of chai tea - it wasn’t his usual drink but he loved the sweet and peppery flavours all mixed together in his mouth. He smiled happily and they ate in quiet comfort for a time. The case wasn’t quite done, but Sherlock had done his part. It was time for him to be a functioning human being until the next case turned up.

 

After their containers were empty and John was thinking about feeling sleepy, Sherlock did something unexpected. He reached forward, turned off the telly, and then pressed his body full against John’s on the couch. Taken aback, John said rather stupidly, “Hello.”

 

“Hello.” Then Sherlock dropped his hand onto John’s thigh and looked him right in the eye. He seemed a little tense - nervous, maybe. So John put his hand on top of Sherlock’s and traced his thumb over the slim bones of his fingers. “Is this… are you still… interested?”

 

Part of John wanted to laugh, but he repressed it. He didn’t want to upset Sherlock, make him think that he had done something wrong. So instead, he smiled gently and said, “Yes. I’m still interested.” Sherlock’s face visibly relaxed and John was suddenly desperate to kiss him. Desperate to let him know just  _ how _ interested he had been.

 

And kiss him he did. John gripped Sherlock’s hand beneath his own and pressed their lips together almost harshly. When Sherlock let out a little sigh and opened his mouth to let in John’s tongue, John dropped his other arm from the back of the sofa and gripped Sherlock’s neck. He flicked his tongue over Sherlock’s, tasting curry and Earl Grey and eliciting another soft moan from the man in his hands. After a moment, he pulled back and stared into Sherlock’s electric eyes.

 

“I thought you had forgotten.”


	15. Day 15: "I thought you had forgotten."

“I thought you had forgotten.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed a bit in what might have been confusion. “Forgotten? Forgotten  _ you _ ?”

 

“Well, maybe just… forgotten what you - what we said.”

 

The expression that Sherlock made then was one that clearly said,  _ Don’t be ridiculous _ . He pressed his mouth into a thin line and tilted his head slightly - in a different context, it might have been condescending. All he actually said was, “ _ John _ .”

 

“Sorry - you’re right. I’m being silly.”

 

“Yes, you are.” With that, Sherlock leaned forward and closed the small distance between their lips. John took that as his cue. 

 

One of Sherlock’s hands was still resting on John’s thigh, the fingers there flexing ever-so-slightly, wanting. John tightened his own fingers around Sherlock’s and slowly dragged his hand upward until their fingers brushed against the bulge in John’s trousers. Sherlock groaned into John’s mouth and he thought that he might not last very long at all.

 

He wanted so much more and he wanted it now. John turned his body more fully toward Sherlock and pressed him backward until he rested against the arm of the sofa. When Sherlock gave his erection a firm squeeze, John let out a heavy breath and slipped his tongue into Sherlock’s open mouth. The friction was amazing, the heavy denim of his jeans and the thin cotton of his pants sliding out of rhythm against his cock, but it was nowhere near enough.

 

Sherlock seemed to sense this; his other hand, which had been caressing the light stubble on John’s cheek, found his collar and pulled John hard against him. Then his legs slipped open and his fingers drifted down to John’s flies and his ankles drew John’s groin against his own from behind the thighs and John gasped desperately. He felt Sherlock smile against his mouth and decided that he could spend his whole life trying to make Sherlock smile like that.

 

When Sherlock’s fingers made it into his pants and closed around his erection, John decided that smiles could wait in favor of desperate gasps and moans. He dropped his own hands down to Sherlock’s trousers and frantically undid him, untucking his shirt, throwing aside his belt, ripping open his zipper until he found the warm, hard flesh of his cock. “Jesus,” John murmured, “I need to feel you, Sherlock. I need you so badly…”

 

Sherlock cut him off with a heady kiss and rolled his hips upward until their cocks collided in an absolutely delicious slide of flesh. They were still dressed and John wished very much that they weren’t, but they were too far gone at this point to stop and strip. Sherlock’s long fingers closed around their joined erections and John let loose a loud moan. “Sshh!” Sherlock hissed, putting his free hand behind John’s head and bringing their mouths together again. He mumbled against John’s lips, “Rosie’s asleep.”

 

John could only nod - Sherlock was twisting his hand around their cocks, rendering John speechless. He buried his face against Sherlock’s neck, suddenly wanting to mark him, to claim him as his own. John bit down lightly on the tender flesh there before sucking and licking - already a purple bruise was forming. Come tomorrow everyone would see that Sherlock was his and  _ God _ , there had never been a more arousing thought.

 

Bucking his hips against Sherlock’s, he placed a second hickey on his long neck and then a third, drawing out a quiet moan from the beautiful man beneath him. Sherlock’s hips rocked up and John could just imagine sliding into his body and  _ Oh, Jesus _ \-  _ there _ was a far more arousing thought than mere love bites.

 

John felt his orgasm beginning to coil low in his belly, his balls tightening and his motions becoming more erratic. “Sherlock,” he whispered harshly, “I’m gonna cum - I need to feel you-” 

 

“God, yes,” was Sherlock’s only answer, a deep rumble that resonated through John’s chest and down to his cock in Sherlock’s hand. Barely above a whisper, he continued, “Please, John. Cum, please.”

 

He did and it was glorious. John spilled his release all over Sherlock’s hand and cock and the small patch of exposed abdomen and Sherlock was right behind him. Curving up into John’s body, Sherlock bit his lip to fight back his cries.

 

John blinked, coming down from his orgasm like he would imagine coming down from a high. He stared down at Sherlock, who let out a tight groan just like when he had too many nicotine patches. Perhaps it  _ was _ rather like a high.

 

“Jesus, Sherlock, you are so…” he was at a loss for words, so he kissed him instead, swift and deep.

 

“No more than you,” Sherlock replied, catching his breath. John huffed out a little laugh. Bracing himself against the arm of the couch, John finally pulled away from their embrace and grabbed a few napkins from their forgotten takeaway. They tidied themselves up as well as they could and zipped back up.

 

Finally, they made eye contact and, after a tiny pause, they burst into quiet giggles. John couldn’t help kissing Sherlock again before a small smirk crossed his lips.

 

“Dinner tomorrow?”

 

“You have to ask?”


	16. Day 16: "This is gonna be so much fun!"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock go on their first official date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up running more than a little long, but it also got more than a little dirty. ;)

“This is gonna be so much fun!” With an expression of pure glee, Molly scooted a second dining table up to the edge of John and Sherlock’s. She and her new boyfriend, Marcus, sidled into their seats and Sherlock heaved a belaboured sigh.

 

“Doubtful,” he muttered under his breath. John’s foot pressed down on his underneath the table and he flashed Molly a sickeningly-sweet smile. As she fussed with her coat and settled into her seat, Sherlock whispered to John, “Why are you doing this to me?”

 

“It’s polite, Sherlock, don’t be an arse.”

 

“Sweet talk for our first date.”

 

“Date?” Molly nearly screeched with excitement.  _ Damn _ . “You two are on a date?” Sherlock sighed again. 

 

“Yes, actually,” John answered and Sherlock was delighted to detect a hint pride in his tone. 

 

“Good for you, lads!” Marcus clapped a congratulatory hand down on Sherlock’s shoulder; Sherlock stared down at the appendage in distaste which Marcus did not seem to pick up. “The blogosphere will be buzzing once news of this gets out.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed.  _ What an absurd collection of words.  _

 

“Oh, please don’t,” John said, terror beginning to shine in his eyes. Oh. Perhaps he wasn’t as excited as Sherlock had thought. Still hung up on  _ not gay.  _

 

“Not to worry! We won’t say a word,” Molly have Marcus a stern expression and he looked appropriately chagrined. 

 

“No - I don’t mind if people know,” John clarified and Sherlock relaxed. “I just don’t care for our personal business to be broadcast on the Internet. It’s hard enough as it is to draw a line between work and life, what with the blog and all.” So that was it - John was just being a private person. Sherlock liked that. John was his and no one else’s. 

 

“Understood.” Marcus have John a playful little salute and was rewarded with one of John’s truly radiant smiles. He had a tendency to show all of his top teeth when he smiled like that; Sherlock noted this data for future reference.

 

“How did you two finally get together?” Molly asked, her face wavering in that peculiar space between happy and sad that Sherlock so often observed on her. “I can only imagine - not that I’ve been imagining!” She broke into a fit of awkward giggles and chewed on her lip. Sherlock felt that any reply from him would only serve to embarrass her further - her awkwardness was borne of her lingering crush on him. So he let John reply.

 

“Oh, it was perfectly mundane, I assure you.” Sherlock smiled a little devilishly. Mundane it had  _ not _ been.

 

The waiter came along and relieved them of the need for further conversation, at least for the time being. Sherlock was actually quite hungry, being that he was still “coming down” from the case, and he considered ordering two entrees. But it would likely not be a good idea to have an overly-full stomach if Sherlock planned on sucking John’s cock tonight, which he certainly did. A little jolt of arousal flew down his spine at the thought.

 

There was John, smiling cordially up at the waiter and waiting politely for Molly and Marcus to place their orders. He was so handsome. How innocent they all looked as Sherlock imagined the filthiest situations he could fathom. Sucking John’s cock - that he would check off tonight. Bending over the arm of the sofa for John to take him - perhaps tomorrow. Lifting John onto the kitchen counter to throw his legs over Sherlock’s shoulders and eat ---

 

“Sherlock?” John looked at him questioningly. “What are you going to eat?”

 

_ Control your heart rate - do NOT blush _ . “I’m sorry?”

 

“Dinner? Are you going to order?”

 

That’s right, there were other people there. They were in public. The waiter stared down at him expectantly, pen poised to take his order. “Oh! Uhm…” he gave the menu in front of him a cursory glance, “the chicken salad, please.” The waiter took his menu with a nod and left.

 

“That’s it? I thought you’d be ravenous,” John said.

 

“Oh, I am,” he dropped his voice and looked John straight in the eye. John blinked twice, licked his lips, and his neck began to redden.  _ Perfect _ .

 

John inclined his head and lifted one eyebrow to gesture toward Molly and Marcus.  _ Behave _ , the expression said, and Sherlock smirked.

 

He shook his head. Just a little. John’s eyes narrowed. 

 

Molly began some inane chatter about her work in the morgue; Sherlock tried to keep an ear out in case he were called upon to contribute. But now he was largely focussed on arousing John as much as possible before they left the restaurant. He reached forward, selected a breadstick from the basket in front of him, and wrapped his lips around it. His tongue darted out to lick away the salt before he sucked it back into his mouth.

 

John visibly swallowed.

 

“As it turns out,” Molly was still talking, “the earring was lodged behind his pancreas!” John made a surprised face, so Sherlock did the same. 

 

“Tell them about the toe, Mols,” Marcus chimed in. With a little “oh” of excitement, Molly dove headlong into another postmortem story. Sherlock observed John’s eyebrows going up and down in silent response to Molly’s diatribe. He had an idea.

 

Beneath the blessedly-long table cloth, Sherlock toed off his right shoe. Slowly, keeping his eyes casually on Molly, he extended his leg forward until his searching toes found John’s groin. A sharp inhale and John’s eyebrows flew upward, but he did not look at Sherlock. He pressed his toes more firmly against John’s cock and felt it twitch, so he wiggled them a bit. John cleared his throat and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. Still no eye contact.

 

Time to up the ante. Sherlock shifted his foot a little and managed to hook his long toes behind the bulge of John’s testicles. John very nearly choked on the sip of wine he had just taken and he finally looked at Sherlock. His eyes, so dark blue they almost looked brown, bore into Sherlock’s and his own cock twitched at the intensity.  _ Amazing. _ All John had to do was look at Sherlock with those commanding eyes and he was itching to feel John’s hands on him.

 

“Here we are.” The waiter appeared with a tray of food and Sherlock silently cursed his timing. He had been sure that John was about to say something to him.  _ Something dirty _ , he hoped. As the plates were passed around, John held his eye contact with Sherlock and he felt his entire body break out in gooseflesh. With one final press against John’s crotch, Sherlock dropped his foot down and worked it back into his shoe.

 

John’s eyes were full of challenge when he spoke again. “Sherlock was just telling me the other day about his latest experiment with… what was that mineral you were researching?” John took up his fork with an expression of feigned innocence.

 

“Cummingtonite?”

 

“If you say so.”

 

Sherlock immediately flushed. He had walked right into that one. Marcus gave an appreciative little snort for John’s joke, but Molly missed the innuendo entirely.

 

“Oh, what research are you doing with that?” she asked. John’s countenance was distractingly daring as he waited for Sherlock to reply.

 

“It’s only found in very specific Manganese-rich soil regions such as North East United States,” Sherlock answered, only making the minimum of eye contact with Molly. He would much rather stare at John. Especially as he dipped the tip of his middle finger into the alfredo sauce pooled at the edge of his plate. His tongue swirled around the cream-coated tip of his finger before he closed his lips around the digit and sucked lightly. Sherlock felt his brain stutter. “AlsoSwedenSouthAfricaScotlandandNewZealand.”

 

“Come again?”

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and wondered briefly if he hadn’t gotten in over his head. “It is also located in Sweden, South Africa, Scotland, and New Zealand.” He took a large bite of his salad, struggling more than necessary to get lettuce onto his fork, and continued to stare at John’s smug expression.

 

They must have talked throughout the rest of the meal, but Sherlock could not be arsed to pay attention. John was making a habit of licking alfredo sauce from the corner of his mouth and the sight of his tongue darting out to pull thick, white cream across his lips was rendering Sherlock nearly comatose. Definitely over his head. He had challenged John and he had more than risen to the occasion, demonstrating without question his command and prowess.  _ Jesus, but I want him right now. _

 

“Well, we’d better get going or we’ll be late for the cinema,” Marcus said, drawing Sherlock from his thoughts. They’d already gotten their bill - when had that happened? Sherlock looked down to see his salad still on his plate, having been largely uneaten and shredded by the mindless stabbing of his fork. Remembering that he was hungry, he quickly scooped what remnants he could into his mouth. “You lads have a fun night.” Marcus stood from the table, helped Molly into her coat, and winked knowingly at Sherlock. Out they went and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.

 

“Satisfied?” John asked, his head tilted smugly to one side.

 

“Hardly.” Sherlock took a large sip of his wine - his throat was suddenly so very dry. The waiter passed by and collected their empty plates. John leaned forward and looked up at Sherlock through his eyelashes, somehow managing to look like pure seduction rather than demure.

 

“If there’s nothing else you’d like to eat, I’d very much like to take you home and put that mouth to better use.”

 

Sherlock whipped out his wallet and dropped far too much cash onto the table. “Let’s go.”

 

\---

 

 _God, how can a cab possibly move this slowly?_ _Aren’t they meant to be quick?_ Sherlock’s leg bounced rapidly against John’s until he suddenly felt John’s warm hand grip his knee. “We’re nearly home,” he said calmly, but the roughness in his voice betrayed his arousal.

 

“I can’t wait any longer,” Sherlock whispered, sliding across the seat to close the distance between them. He pressed his lips to the hot skin just behind John’s ear, eliciting a harsh sigh.

 

“You can and you will.” John’s tone was firm and thick pulse of arousal shot through Sherlock’s abdomen. He bit down on John’s ear ever-so-lightly.

 

“You can’t tell me what to do,” he growled, low and quiet. John turned and looked at him with intense lust, so close that Sherlock felt drowned in his gaze.

 

“Wanna bet?”

 

Thank God the cab stopped because Sherlock felt sure he was about to bend forward and swallow John’s cock whole without any further provocation. John blinked slowly and smirked as he reached for the door handle, still maintaining eye contact.

 

“Pay the man.”

 

Sherlock nearly dropped his wallet as John slid from the vehicle. He noted belatedly that the two bank notes he handed over to the driver were both twenties, but he had never cared less about money in all his life and that was really saying something. John had already turned the key in the door by the time Sherlock flew up the stoop and they squeezed their way into the foyer together. 

 

“Come here, you utter mad man,” John breathed as he grasped Sherlock by the lapels and pulled him tight against him. He kissed him, hard and deep, and Sherlock nearly fell to his knees. 

 

“John…”

 

“Upstairs. Now.” 

 

“God, yes.”

 

Sherlock flew up the stairs two at a time, John right on his heels. He wasted no time in shucking his coat and suit jacket and was already undoing the buttons of his shirt by the time John pressed him against his bedroom door. His tongue dove expertly into Sherlock’s mouth and he resolved, at a later time, to spend several hours doing nothing but kissing John. Kissing him deep and slow and wet and warm but for now, now they were only kissing to occupy the time it took to undress.  It was absolutely glorious.

 

John’s hands slid inside the open panels of Sherlock’s shirt and pushed it callously to the floor. For a brief, hateful second, their kiss was broken as Sherlock pulled John’s jumper and shirt over his head in one move, but John was swift to rectify the situation. His lips landed on Sherlock’s neck as one hand slipped into the band of his trousers and the other turned the knob on the door.

 

They nearly tumbled into the room, but it brought their bodies in closer contact and Sherlock hummed at the warmth of their abdomens touching. John’s firm hands made their way up to Sherlock’s pectoral muscles, squeezed lightly, then shoved him backward onto the bed. It took him by such surprise that he didn’t even have time to register what was happening before John nearly ripped his trousers and pants down to his ankles.

 

John was on his knees. In front of Sherlock. He was dreaming. Wasn’t he? That was the only explanation. The whole thing was a delicious, terrible, illusionary dream.

 

“Oh, fuck!” Not a dream. The wet heat of John’s mouth was so good that it was almost too much and that was when he knew - he had never dreamed anything so real as this magnificent sensation.

 

John’s motions were shallow and quick and, despite his outward confidence, Sherlock could tell he was nervous.  _ First time? Can’t be… Sholto? Not now!  _  Sherlock’s brain was working in short, stilted thoughts that he was struggling to control but he absolutely did not want to think about John doing this to any other man ever. Ever. But when John’s tongue slipped firmly into the slit of his cock, all coherent thoughts ended immediately. His eyes rolled back and it was all he could do not to grab hold of John’s hair and pull him further down.

 

Fearless as ever, John worked his mouth as far down Sherlock’s shaft as he was able, kissing and licking in between fierce sucking and Sherlock was already about to cum. “John,” he slurred, his head rolling about on the duvet. “ _ Ah - John… _ ” With a choked sigh, he came into John’s mouth and absolutely revelled in the sensation of the other man drinking him down, his lips and throat continuing to work against his sensitive flesh.

 

“God, Sherlock, you are  _ gorgeous _ ,” John rasped as he came away. He stood and stretched out over Sherlock’s prone form, kissing his way up the bare, heaving torso in front of him. When their lips met again, Sherlock could taste himself and he groaned wantonly into John’s mouth. John writhed subtly against Sherlock’s hip and it was as though he was activated. 

 

John was painfully hard and it was all because of Sherlock. He brought his legs up to wrap around John’s thighs and flipped them over so that John was on his back. He was still wearing his trousers -  _ how dare he _ ? Sherlock was naked and that was the way it was supposed to be. John should never be fully dressed again.

 

He slid off the side of the bed and set to work. His fingers delved swiftly into John’s waistband and teased along the line of his oblique muscles and the skin of his abdomen twitched in anticipation. Sherlock planted a wet kiss below his navel, ran his nose through the smattering of blonde hair, then pulled down John’s zipper. As he tugged his trousers down, he mouthed at the outline of John’s erection through the fabric of his pants and grinned as John let out a loud groan.

 

Finally,  _ finally _ , he pulled down John’s pants and divested him entirely of all his clothes. His erection was as perfect as Sherlock had imagined - he’d gotten a feel for it yesterday, but he downright salivated at the sight of John’s cock right in front of his face. Longer than the width of Sherlock’s palm by a considerable margin and thicker than he remembered.  _ Perfect. I wonder how he tastes… _

 

Also perfect, as Sherlock soon found out.  _ Salty, a little metallic and a hint of John’s generic soap. Warm. He tastes so warm _ . Sherlock hummed around John’s cock, about as content as he had ever been. When he undilated his tongue along the underside of John’s shaft, his head fell back and he let out the most decadent moan. Sherlock looked up from John’s groin and saw that his hands had knotted the blankets in a fierce grasp.  _ Holding back. Not for long. _

 

Not releasing John from his mouth, Sherlock reached upward and took each of John’s hands in his own. Their fingers intertwined and John squeezed hard, but that was far from all Sherlock had in mind. He brought John’s grasping fingers to his hair and gave an encouraging little tap before delving far back down his shaft. John took the hint, tightened his grip in Sherlock’s curls, and  _ pulled. _

 

When Sherlock moaned this time, John joined him. He opened his throat as much as possible and surrendered to John’s arousal. Steadily pulling Sherlock up and down at a rapid pace, John finally let go of his inhibitions and all but fucked his mouth with reckless abandon.  _ Glorious _ , Sherlock thought. The sharp tug at the roots of his hair was enough to start to arouse him again, but he knew he didn’t have another orgasm in him. Not tonight. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to remain on his knees for John until he gave out. He wanted to taste him, to be covered in him,  _ possessed  _ by him. 

 

John was getting close now - the taut muscles of his abdomen were twitching, his heels digging into Sherlock’s back, his fingers pulling at the hair wrapped in his fists. Sherlock wanted to give his pleasure to him, to be the reason this incredible man came undone. To show him how good they could be together. He reached behind John’s balls and rolled them in his long fingers and that was it - John was cumming, hot and hard and  _ perfect _ , right down Sherlock’s throat. He drank him in like he was dying of thirst and John was a well. “Fuck, fuck,  _ fuck _ ,” John groaned and Sherlock had never heard anything so beautiful. He could write an opera around the sound of John’s orgasm.

 

It took a minute, but John’s grasp on his hair finally loosened and Sherlock was able to sit back and collect himself. His mind was clear and quiet and his body moved as if through water, he was so relaxed. Not since the last time he used had he felt so swimmingly calm. Except this time, there would be no devastating come down. Sherlock slid back onto his bed and wrapped his entire body around John’s.

 

John would be there from now on.


	17. Day 17: "I'll tell you but you're not gonna like it."

“I’ll tell you, but you’re not gonna like it.”

 

“Alright,” John whispered sleepily into his mobile, “let me call you back in a minute, Greg.” This was clearly going to be a conversation that required his full attention.

 

“Yeah, alright.” Lestrade hung up and John silenced his phone, lest it ring again and disturb anyone. Disturb Sherlock.

 

Turning his head to the side, John was treated to the sight of Sherlock sleeping - actually sleeping, not napping or dozing or mediating. But sleeping, deep and still. How beautiful he was. Truly stunning. 

 

John grinned stupidly and ran his hands over his own sleepy face, rubbing his eyes open and taking in his surroundings. He was in Sherlock’s room, the soft morning light casting a pleasant haze over the two of them. Better than Sherlock’s room, he was in Sherlock’s bed. And he was still naked. His grin grew.

 

_ Alright, Watson. Focus. Greg’s waiting for your call _ . John heaved a sigh as he stretched his tight muscles and gently pulled the duvet off of him before he slipped quietly out of bed. Padding quietly across the room, he grabbed Sherlock’s blue dressing gown from the peg beside the door before closing it behind him. Once in the sitting room, John dropped into his armchair took a moment to drink in the rare quiet of the flat. Sherlock was asleep. Rosie was with Violet and Siger. It was a blissful peace that had to come to a rapid end. He dialed up Lestrade.

 

“Alright, Greg. Give me the bad news.”

 

“We can’t get an arrest warrant for Jack,” Greg answered around a sigh. John could just see him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Judge says there’s not enough evidence to suggest that he’s done anything illegal - only the two hired guns we’ve already got in custody.”

 

“Shit.” John made a fist with his free hand and pounded lightly on the arm of his chair. “What do we do now?”

 

“I dunno, John.” There was a bit of a pause. “D’you think Sherlock could find him?” Lestrade was hesitant.

 

“Hypothetically?”

 

“Hypothetically, of course.”

 

“Yeah, he can find him. He can find anyone.”

 

“Well, listen,” Lestrade said, his voice tight and low as if he was trying not to be heard, “I’m not  _ telling _ you to find this tosser, but if  _ someone _ doesn’t catch him at something actually illegal, this whole case is going to die on the courtroom floor and those women will be back in danger.”

 

“Understood.”

 

“God help me.” With that, Lestrade hung up the phone and John was left to contemplate his words. After a long moment, he stood from his chair and started back toward Sherlock’s bedroom, flicking the kettle on as he passed.

 

John slowly pushed the door open and peeked inside. Sherlock was still sleeping. He hated to have to wake him, but the work was calling. And not only would Sherlock murder him and make it look like an accident if John let him sleep through a case, John knew they were short on time. He slid onto the bed and gently untucked the duvet from under Sherlock’s chin. “Sherlock,” he whispered. “Time to get up.”

 

“Hmpf,” Sherlock mumbled and flopped over onto his other side. John’s heart did a little flip when he saw the hickey on Sherlock’s long neck and he grinned.

 

“Come on, now,” John urged a little louder this time. He nudged Sherlock’s hip and was answered with another nondescript grunt. Leaning down to plant a kiss behind Sherlock’s ear, he said, “The game is on, Sherlock.”

 

That worked. Sherlock flipped onto his back and finally opened his eyes. His gaze, grumpy and heavy with sleep, landed on John and he sighed. “Lestrade called?”

 

“We have to go find Jack,” he answered. “Greg can’t get a warrant, so someone’s got to catch him.”

 

Sherlock nodded solemnly and tossed the duvet onto the floor in one fluid motion. Unsure why, John felt his cheeks flush at Sherlock’s unabashed nudity. He’d get used to it eventually. The prospect made his chest swell. “Alright, alright,” Sherlock grumbled, heading toward the bathroom. He shook his arms and rocked his head like a boxer, waking himself up fully. “Get dressed, John. You can’t wear my dressing gown on a manhunt.” As he passed, Sherlock gave him a quick peck on the lips. “No matter how good you look.”

 

John thought he might pull a muscle from all the grinning he was doing. “Be sure to wear a scarf today, yeah?”

 

It was Sherlock’s turn to grin.


End file.
